Through the Darkness

Behind him, his men let out startled gasps. “Get back, Sergeant!” Szonyi hissed from a few trees away. Istvan shook his head. They’d already seen him, there in the village. Oh, he could still duck back into cover but, oddly, he didn’t want to. Whatever would happen would happen, that was all. The stars already knew. They’d known for as long as they’d been shining. Now he would find out, too.

Startled cries rang out. The woman at the well stared and pointed toward Istvan. People came tumbling out of houses and a bigger log building that might have been a tavern. They all pointed and exclaimed. Plainly, strangers here were a prodigy, which proved the Unkerlanter army didn’t know this place existed. Nobody aimed a stick at him. Nobody was holding one. They have to have them, Istvan thought. There isn‘t anybody who doesn‘t know about sticks. . . is there?

Like a man in a dream, he walked toward the villagers. Some of them came toward him, too. He still had hold of his stick, but didn’t raise it. It was too light to see the stars, but they were always there. Eclipses proved it. If you want me to make amends for what I did, that can happen. I’m ready.

One of the villagers spoke to him in guttural Unkerlanter. It wasn’t Hands high! or Surrender! or Throw down your stick!--about all he knew of the enemy’s language. “I don’t follow,” he said in his own language, and then, because being polite seemed wise in a dream, he added, “I’m sorry.”

To his surprise, the Unkerlanter, a gray-haired man, answered in accented, halting Gyongyosian: “Not try to talk this talk many years. Sometimes--past times--you people come, trade for furs. You want trade for furs? We have furs to spare.”

They didn’t know there was a war. They didn’t recognize his uniform for what it was. “Maybe I will... trade for furs,” he said dazedly. He fumbled in his belt pouch and pulled out a small silver coin. “Can I buy some brandy first?”

All the villagers gaped at the coin. There were out-of-the-way valleys in Gyongyos that hardly ever saw real money, too. The Unkerlanter who spoke Gyongyosian said something in his own language. Everyone exclaimed. Three young men pelted toward the big building. The one who got there first came back with not just a mug but a jar. He took the silver from Istvan as if afraid the soldier would scream about being cheated.

With another coin, I could buy the prettiest girl here, Istvan realized. Money’s worth a lot. They must never see it at all. First things first, though. He yanked out the stopper and took a swig. Sweet fire ran down his throat. It was plum brandy, and tasted like summer. “Ahh!” he said, and swigged again. The gray-haired Unkerlanter clapped him on the back. He put an arm around the shorter man’s shoulder, then looked around, trying to decide which girl he would offer silver.

The villagers exclaimed again, and pointed toward the woods. The soldiers in Istvan’s squad, seeing nothing bad happen to him--seeing, in fact, the reverse--were coming out, too. “Your friends?” asked the man who spoke Gyongyosian.

“Aye--my friends.” Istvan turned and called to his men: “They’re nice as can be. Act the same, and we’ll all stay happy.”

“They all to dress like you,” the Unkerlanter said. He sounded surprised once more. Didn’t he know about uniforms? If he didn’t, how long had this village been cut off from the wider world? A cursed long time, that was sure.

Istvan’s troopers wasted no time in getting spirits for themselves. A couple of them wasted no time in trying to get friendly with the village girls, and their luck looked likely to be good. Sure enough, silver was almost sorcerously potent here.

Smiling at one of the girls, Istvan jingled the coins in his belt pouch. She smiled back. Aye, she’s a slut, he thought. But it might not have been so simple. An encounter with a stranger was hardly the same as lying down with a village boy who’d brag of his conquest for months afterwards.

With dumb show, they reached a bargain. Istvan gave the girl two coins and offered her the jar of brandy. She drank from it, then tilted her face up and kissed him. His arms slid around her. Her lips were sweet on his, her breasts firm and soft against his chest.

“Where?” he asked. She might not know the word, but she’d understand what he meant. And she did, pointing back toward one of the houses.

But they’d taken only a few steps in that direction when more Gyongyosian soldiers burst from the woods, shouting war cries: “Gyongyos! Ekrekek Arpad!” They started blazing before they asked a single question or saw nothing amiss had happened to Istvan and his squad.